


The Art of Survival

by liesmyth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Crossover Pairings, First Meetings, Intrigue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26678272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Relationships: Murtagh Morzansson/Sansa Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27
Collections: Fic In A Box





	The Art of Survival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amitye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amitye/gifts).



She walks into his cell like a vision, dressed in blue and pearl-grey, her long red hair flowing down to her elbows. Murtagh’s days are grey and endless, a delirious haze; he can’t remember the last time he saw someone who wasn’t a palace guard or one of Galbatorix’s warlocks.

He’s on his feet immediately.

The door is closed behind her, locking the two of them inside together. She affixes her torch to the wall-holder and turns to look at him fully, smoothing her hands down her dress.

“Murtagh son of Morzan,” she says. “Well, you don’t look a thing like court gossip has been saying. I brought you water.” Her brows arch. “I thought you might want to take a bath?”

The flaming torch is the first light Murtagh has seen in a while. He blinks, trying to place her. She’s dressed like one of the ladies of the court, her long dress and large embroidered sleeves flowing around her in a cloud of wools and silks, and he wonders if she’s going to try and attack his mind next.

“Are you with the Black Hand?”

Something flickers across her face.

“As if,” she says. “Would you like to wash?”

He’s not too proud to say no. She knocks on the door and the guards push it open again, two of the guardsmen on duty carrying in a bronze tub and buckets of scalding hot water. Murtagh hasn’t gotten the chance to wash since the first week of his capture, back when Galbatorix had him brought to an apartment in the palace instead of the cells. That must have been weeks ago; he knows he stinks, and the thought of relieving his aches in hot water feels like a delicious luxury.

When the tub has been filled, the guards leave again. Murtagh turns to look at the woman.

“Do you expect me to strip naked in front of you?” he asks. “I don’t even know your name.”

That makes her flush. With a jolt, Murtagh realises then that she’s younger than what he first thought – she must be his age, or near enough.

“I am Lady Sansa,” she says. “And I will return tomorrow. Enjoy your bath.” She hesitates. “I had to promise the King’s castellan that you wouldn’t drown yourself in the tub, not with that dragon bound to you. Don’t make a liar out of me.”

She leaves before Murtagh has the chance to tell her that he never considered taking his own life, not by drowning and not ever. Another man in Murtagh’s place might have preferred to die rather than serve Galbatorix, but Murtagh never was the kind of man to throw away his life for the sake of some nebulous cause, and both he and the King know this.

Murtagh is the kind of man who takes every chance that’s offered to him and makes the best of it, so he scrubs his skin clean and dresses in the new clothes that Lady Sansa brought. They fit him nearly perfectly.

_Do all humans like to immerse yourselves in water, or is it just you?_

Murtagh jumps. It’s the dragon, a low curious rumble in the back of his mind. Murtagh has been avoiding talking to it – him, he remembers – because the last thing he needs is something else that can be used against him, but he still catches himself slipping now and again. Every slip-up makes the next one easier; Murtagh focuses on fastening his new trousers and doesn’t answer. He might just be delaying the inevitable, but no one ever said Murtagh wasn’t stubborn.

True to her word, she returns the next day. He’s well-rested from the bath and a peaceful night, Galabtorix hasn’t visited him in three days, and all in all this is the best Murtagh has felt since he was first brought down to the cells.

Once again, Lady Sansa has enlisted the prison guardsmen to act as her personal errand boys, and has lieutenant Sotras bring them tea. Murtagh isn’t grateful exactly, but he’ll take his small comforts where he can get them.

“So,” he says, expectant, once they’re alone.

For the longest time, Lady Sansa doesn’t speak. She can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen, her features southron and delicate, and Murtagh can’t shake the feeling he’s seen her somewhere before.

Then she turns to look at him, blue gaze piercing.

“Last week, I sought audience with the King. I know something of your situation – not everyone at court does, but I heard about it from Chancellor Tywin himself. I promised the King I would turn you over to his side. I think it has been long enough that he’s become rather impatient, so he agreed to let me try. And here I am.” She claps her hands in front of her. “My lord, I think you should swear fealty to him. You – the both of you have suffered enough.”

Murtagh laughs. He can’t help it; he resisted weeks of torture and along comes this girl of the court, asking him to give in. Of all of Galbatorix’s tricks, this one has to be the shoddiest.

“I’m not going to capitulate just because a pretty lady asked nicely.”

The look she gives him could freeze flames.

“Do you know who I am?”

Murtagh shakes his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“My name is Sansa Stark,” she says. “My father was Lord Eddard. You may have heard of him?”

Murtagh had. Lord Eddard of Winterfell had been one of the lords in the northernmost part of the Empire, not far from the small village in the Spine where Murtagh’s mother had been born. Lord Eddard had been one of the few voices at court who dared criticise Galbatorix's policies; his wealth and ironclad reputation for fairness had protected him until they no longer had. Three years ago, Chancellor Tywin had Lord Eddard and his family arrested on charges of treason and stripped of their lands. Rumour was it that the entire thing had been orchestrated by Tywin to seize the Stark holdings, but these days Galbatorix never concerns himself with passing judgement in court, and Lord Tywin’s word is the law.

“I know what you think of the King,” Lady Sansa says. “I certainly don’t like him. He could have saved my family and did nothing. But – back in the days of the Thirteen, something like this would never have happened.”

The scar on Murtagh’s back begins to throb, as it always did when he thought about his father for too long.

“The Forsworn were deplorable,” he says. “They betrayed their order, everything they’d sworn to protect, they–”

“They kept the peace,” Lady Sansa cut in. “You’re also a traitor, aren’t you? You left Urû'baen in the middle of the night like a thief, but you’re to be given all the riches and power in the Empire even if you have to be tortured into it, all because you got yourself a dragon. I have spent years as Tywin’s ward because he wants to marry me to his grandson to acquire my father’s lands.” She holds her head up high. “I think it would be beneficial to both of us if you agreed to what we both know you’re going to agree to eventually, for your well being and that small dragon of yours. And then we should be allies,” she says. “You’ll need help navigating the court and I need – well. Lord Tywin would never be able to touch you.”

“You have it all planned out,” Murtagh says, voice betraying nothing. She shrugs.

“Of course, I would get the King’s favour if I was the one who won you over to his side. I need all the power I can get.”

Murtagh looks at her, carefully. She has a lovely face, with fair skin and big blue eyes; he doesn’t think Lord Stark’s lands are the only reason why Lord Tywin’s grandson might want to marry her. He finds himself wishing they could spend more time together.

“You know I can’t accept.”

“Of course not. Well, I tried.” She stands up. “In a month or so, when you change your mind, come find me. We can talk then.”

It takes two more weeks for Murtagh to break.

He doesn’t like to think about it. He’s not a proud man, exactly – pride is a burden and Murtagh has learned to travel light – but he still can’t bring himself to remember the way he sobbed when he finally broke down, the pleased smile on Galbatorix’s face, his cold touch, the dragon’s soothing touch at the back of his mind.

It happened. Murtagh broke down and swore fealty to a man he despises, and now he has access to a newfound power he’s learning to harvest, and the influence that comes from people cowering in fear in front of him. His life will never be the same and he hates that, but he tells himself that it’s not that bad. He likes talking to the dragon, who still doesn’t have a name. Now that he has the freedom to walk the palace halls Murtagh finds himself in the library more often than not, reading up on forgotten history and lore, but there’s disappointingly little on dragons to be found.

 _I think I will remember in time_ , the small red dragon offers, and Murtagh contemplates that quietly. He wonders what it’d feel like to carry such ancestral memory in his bones, if it would hurt as much as the sensation of Galbatorix rummaging around in his head.

He likes watching the dragon fly. He knows one day he’ll grow enough to be ridden, and another day no long after that Murtagh will have to take him into battle against Galbatorix’s enemies, but for now they both enjoy having something that makes them happy.

Being in Urû'baen again feels odd. Murtagh was a boy when he was here last, seventeen and naive, a studious young man who kept to himself and hardly noticed all the cutthroat scheming around him. He understands now how dangerous the court is, all the plottings and squabblings Morzan’s blood-soaked legacy shielded him from. There’s Lord Tywin, the old chancellor to a mad King who wants to keep all the power he’s gained from the crumbs of Galbatorix’s disinterest. Then there’s the up-and-comer Lord Baelish, and munificent Lord Tyrell who wants the smallfolk to love him. Then there are the warlocks of the court, the Black Hands and the old sages, who hold no lands but have power and scramble to keep it.

And now there’s Murtagh, he supposes. He’s got a dragon and all that comes with it, the envy and resentment and fear, and all the sycophants and enemies he inherited from Morzan when he was four years old, if only he’d reach for them.

At first, he wants none of it. Then Sansa Stark finds him again.

This time when she visits him it’s well-kept apartments instead of a prison cell, and the way she looks to their surroundings as she sits down makes it clear that the comparison is on her mind as much as it’s on his own. There are no guards this time, only the two of them, and she smooths out the folds of her dress to gain time as she sits down.

“I don’t suppose you can offer me tea.” She looks around, but there’s no one to bring it. He only lets Galabtorix’s servants inside when he’s not there. “You don’t you have anyone to look after you? No old retainers, faithful companions who waited with bated breath for your return to the capital?”

He thinks she’s teasing him, but it’s hard to say. “I had someone,” he says, thinking of Tornac. He can’t bring himself to think of Eragon, who had all the luck Murtagh didn’t get. “I haven’t had any companions since I left.”

“I think you should court me,” she says, abrupt.

Murtagh’s sure his face must be doing something unflattering.

“Pardon me?”

“I am a prisoner in this court, same as you,” Sansa says. “Unlike you, I don’t have a shred of power. Also unlike you, I’d know what to do with it. I think we should be allies.” She tosses her hair back, and it falls like burnished gold. “The King could have stopped my family’s executions if he’d bothered to spend a tenth of the effort he put breaking into your mind to keep Tywin Lannister in check, but he didn’t. And you.” She looks straight into Murtagh’s eyes, and if he didn’t know what that felt like he’d swear she was reading his mind. “You hate being powerless. Well, I’m telling you – you can’t go against the King, but you can make some things better for the people of the Empire. My father had plans, before he died.”

It’s a nice speech; undoubtedly she’s come prepared, but Murtagh’s mind is still fixated on what she said early on.

“You said I should pay you court.”

“If it won’t be too much for a chore for you.” She smiles, and it’s clear she’s teasing him. “I thought it could let us make plans together undisturbed. And keep Joffrey Lannister away from me,” she adds, in a voice that makes Murtagh suspect Joffrey Lannister should begin to watch his back. Then Sansa goes on, “May I see your dragon? The entire court is talking about it. One of Lady Margaery’s cousins said she saw him fly outside her window two days ago.”

There are dimples on her cheeks when she smiles. Murtagh stands up and takes her to see the dragon, who commanded a whole room of his own and enjoys sleeping in a fur-lined nest. The other day he nearly bit off Murtagh’s finger when he wasn’t fast enough in feeding him, and he shows Sansa the small cut on his finger, laughing.

“You know, I had a familiar of my own. Of course it was an animal, not a dragon, but my father’s family had some magical abilities. I used to think I could learn to talk to her in my mind, like Father and Robb did with their wolves.” She looks saddened but not hurt, like whatever wound she’s picking at has finally begun to heal. Then she looks to the dragon again. “My wolf was named Lady. My sister Arya hated it. What’s his name?”

“Uh. He hasn’t got one yet,” Murtagh has to explain. “Dragons are opinionated, apparently. I keep making suggestions, but we haven’t found one he really likes yet. Would you like to help me?” He asks. He doesn’t know where it came from. “I mean, if you have the time. There are many books in the palace library and I’ve been going through them, I thought, there’s bound to be something in there he’ll like.”

“Yes,” Sansa says, immediately. She smiles that bright smile again, and Murtagh thinks that maybe they can build something good together, even in the middle of all this grief. “Yes, of course. I’d love to help. Do you want to go now?”

They walk to the library together. The entire palace stares, but Murtagh finds that he doesn’t mind.


End file.
